Short Story #1

     This is a short story I've been slowly ironing out for a while, now.  It's probably my most personal story, and I hope the writing and tone shows.  Again, any constructive criticism is appreciated, and thanks in advance for taking the time to read over my dribble, ;).

Only Mothballs

Tick.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

                I can’t seem to remember another time where I wished death on an inanimate object more than that cheap Walmart analog wall clock.

Fuck.You.Fuck fuck fuck fuck…

                My face contorts itself into a tight lipped, spiteful stare down with those monotonous hands slothing around the clock’s opaque face, all the while my surroundings flow along as my teacher’s throaty voice weaves its tendrils through my classmates perked up ears.  Topic of discussion for today?  Harry Goddamn Potter.  At this point in our curriculum, I’ve already concluded that the reading level everyone else is stuck at doesn’t warrant my undivided attention, so I flip the switch back to my preferred state of bubbling anticipation, sprinkled with shavings of anxiety as the seconds tick before that fire truck red bell rings. 

Just.Fucking.End.

                At this point the tick in my dominant foot has made a sizeable dent in the linoleum floor, and I’m fairly confident my right digits have fused quite successfully with the laminated pale wood top of my prison cell, crafted lovingly around my chunky frame and cutting off blood flow to my lower extremities.  Luckily, I’ve acclimated to my second home fairly decently, yet nothing could have prepped me for that insatiable ticking. 

                Realizing my sentence is far from fully served, I chew my tongue and flex my eyes across the classroom.  It’s in your typical disarray of scattered backpacks and strewn school books, tastefully accented by the ungodly amount of inspirational posters with bold font gems like “Perseverance”, “Determination”, and, my personal favorite, a ridiculously photogenic tiger with “Respect” plastered over its head.  If I hadn’t known better, I swear I was in a suicide prevention self help group, determined to stop me from jumping out of this third story windowed classroom just so I can avoid anymore mind numbing debate over some perceived symbolism regarding three headed dogs and magic  potions, written by a British hack.

                However, personal gripes aside, it’s actually my least despised classroom.  This is due in part to my sick glee in watching my teacher work her smoker’s lung charm across my classmates, who were more or less petrified by the gaping hole in her larynx.  As far as we knew, she was one step away from being a full blown Sith Lord, so rambunctiousness was kept to a minimum on our own accord.  But besides her nightmarish impairment, she had developed an insatiable taste for making us twelve year olds feel like morons; taking every chance she could to chastise us for our limited literary intellect and finding miniscule things to ship us off to the principal’s dungeon.  Hell, I’ve already been subjected to multiple sit-downs due to my daydreaming and desktop acoustics with whatever I could find to tap with.  So, when I felt the familiar vibrations of her raspy voice form the shape of my name through my mind haze, I begrudgingly stick my head out of my shell and acknowledge her cackling. 

                “Yes, Ms. Kruger?”

She locks on to my signal, an almost merciless grimace painted over her jowls. 

“You’re being called down to the office.  You can get your bag and pick up today’s assignment from someone, tomorrow.”

I shift slightly in my seat, my mind still processing the incoming order.

                “Wait, So I can leave?”  My befuddlement is understandable; there are still twenty minutes revolutions on my sentence.  Yet, even after saying that, my incredulousness goes unheeded as she continues talking to the black board, and my classmates glare murderously at my get out of jail free card, gyrating above my head like a golden Mario token.  Without further hesitation, I shimmy out of my chair, stumbling across my bag at my feet before I sweep it in one arm, cradling my lunch box in the other.  And, like an apparition with supposed hidden symbolism, I vapor out of the room to my parole hearing. 

                My squawking sneakers echo along the halls as I make multiple sharp angle turns, my impatience suffocating my thoughts as I navigate this well worn rat maze. 

Whatever it is I’m in trouble for, at least I cut a chunk out of my day.  Oh shit, I have Gamecube at home!

                With that sudden realization, my pace is quickened as I practically gallop towards my destination.  Rounding the last corner and down the final stairway, I land at the base of the exits where the office window sits along side the doors.  What I glance next out of the corner of my eye actually procures a lump in my throat.

…Shit

                It’s the glint off of his glasses that catches my unusually unwavering eye.  Any more proof is unnecessary, but my mind predictably betrays me as my blank face scans the rest of my father’s exterior shell.  Standing tall with his 5’5” frame, my father is sporting his usual knitted vest and well worn dress shirt tucked underneath the top layer.  But I’m not fooled.  I can literally taste the boxed wine radiating off of his off white collar and stained grey trousers, coating the back of my throat.  I repulse myself for missing that stench of cheap liquor and mothballs.  Strangely enough, it’s the latter that churns my stomach more. 

                And, yet, I notice a splash of impromptu disheveled tucking, especially around his stickly waistline.  To anyone else, he looks like a typical father of three, who is stuck in Korean accountant family man attire.  In my eyes, though, he appears distraught, and it actually colors me curious.  We make eye contact, and my spine snaps straight as an arrow. 

Suddenly all too tactile memories of multiplication table home school sessions gestate in my mind as I reminisce the vivid days of head smacking and sneering from those coffee stained fangs, and I disgust myself as I relish those memories.  I can still taste his Colgate coated, acid tainted breath permeating my sinuses, almost subconsciously making me second guess what eight multiplied by eight really was.  Yes, this is a man who bathes in the waters of my and my sibling’s tormented tears, and I accept it with a leashed disdain that makes the man in me tremble with rage at my defeated posture; my shoulders slumped with fear of the near future.

                I snap back.  Luckily, I haven’t broken eye contact.  He would have chastised me in his own demented way for my fault in saving face.  No, stone cold Steve Austin, I muse in my racing head.  Coolly, I trail off my gaze to the back of the receptionist’s head, followed by my intense focus of the door knob as I round the corner and stretch out my clammy palm towards the knob.  I don’t recollect turning the knob, nor the breaths that led up to the turning point.  I honestly can only recall the welcoming stench of printer paper and stale pepper mints from the counter of her desk.  For once, I resist the temptation to stuff my greedy face with a fistful of these distracting confections, and I once again meet my father’s battered and stubborn gaze.  I miss his smile.  His twisted revolting smile.  At least it was an inviting form of trickery. 

“You have your homework, with you?” he recites, going through the motions; the steps to our little jig.  I predictably nod with not even a peep, and my feet switch the weight distribution to convey my half hearted annoyance aimed at his cookie cutter questionnaire.  I dare not push it further, though.  I don’t much feel like relishing in his cheek stinging “reminders”, tonight. 

“I’ll be in the car.  Sign out and meet me at the front.”

What a lovely grimace, on his part.  I wonder what the occasion is?

 He exits and I take up my post at the counter.  The secretary, in exemplary fashion, feigns interest, with me responding in kind by slopping off a half hearted smile form my twitching facial muscles. 

She fucking knows.

                One chicken scratching of a signature later and I find myself dragging my stumps across the dirt choked carpet out past the fingertip stained glass double doors and onto the curb.  There, like an apparition brooding atop his cold, metallic grey steed, is my father in his twice wrecked BMW.  Cue the beckoning gesture laced with annoyance.  Cue my dejected shuffle towards the passenger seat.  Commence the suffocating and torturous silence, save for the clicking of my seat belt and the gear change of our stallion that careens off into the distance, leaving behind a place I suddenly embrace as a sanctuary, given the circumstances. 

                The entrance to the highway rears its reflective head as we round the curved entrance to its maw, and we continue on at break neck speed to our still undisclosed destination.  Passing a roughly nailed together cross marking Sparky’s final resting place on the side of the highway, I peel my gaze away from the attractions rushing past my vision and soak in my father’s stoic visage behind the wheel.  An irritated acceptance, I gawk.  Sensing this, he shifts his gaze form the hypnotic yellow lines gobbledup by the car’s grill and rests his high beams onto me, scanning my unspoken questions.  I give in and my attention is quickly taken by the absorbing detail on the exterior of the dash board.  Deafening silence engulfs our burgeoning dialogue.

                A lifetime careens past my jittery senses before we arrive at the exit.  The tempo of our turning signal harkens our arrival into the downtown area of our hometown.  It’s a quaint location, its landmarks most notably being the towering golden arches of McDonalds, partnered at the hip to the sickly sea green tinge of the mermaid mascot of America’s favorite coffee chain.  Apart from them, however, I mentally check off the plethora of vintage second hand clothing stores and pottery work shops that lazily scrawl their reflections across my passenger side window, further illuminated by the droplets of that morning’s dew on the outer surface.  An elderly woman with an odd fixation for plaid waits patiently for the little green man to grant her safe passage across the clogged downtown street, while at the other end a business man can be seen scrubbing furiously at his tie to rid of a mysterious business lunch stain.  My attention teeters back towards the steady turning radius of my father’s hands as we park outside the entrance of an inviting Subway restaurant, cozying up to a very lovely, if overpriced pizza restaurant with insane pesto pie confections. 

Squeak of brakes. 

Grinding of emergency brake. 

Snap of receding seat belts. 

And just like that, I find myself straddling the corralling pens that lead up to the dejected cashier.  My father’s attention is stagnant as I decide whether or not to pick my customary meatball sub, in all its sodium dripping glory.  Transition to us occupying the window seats that overlook the bustling downtown scene.  Even though I’m still reveling in this odd moment with my father, I tune him out as I claw the protective wrapping away from my sandwich, all the while he fingers some loose change in his pants pocket; the jangling melting into the cluttered sounds of scraping chairs and overhead ceiling fans.  A few bites in, however, and his patented brooding overtakes my curiosity as I peek up from the herb and cheese bun and ask him that unspoken question with my halted mastication.  I spot his clenched jaw right before he lays out, “ Haraboji had an accident about an hour ago.  We’ll be heading over in a bit to see him.”

Still computing. 

I finish the bite in my mouth and swallow. 

This next bite will be delicious.

 He cocks his head ever so slightly at my lack of an auditory exclamation.

 “Your mom says he must’ve slipped and hit the sink.  It’s happened before.”

               

The next bite is appropriately glossed with concern.  Perhaps even a little hind sighted annoyance with my grandfather’s carless nature.

 He might not be so lucky next ti-…

                A marinara drenched meatball slips from my grip, my hand reduced to jelly.  My toes curl into tightly compacted balls in my light up Sketchers.  Honestly, this is new to me.  Not sure which mask to don to emphasize my unsettled emotions.  I mock stunned silence, which I suppose is the right reaction since my father seems satisfied with it.  I am a blank slate, closing my mouth and framing the windows in my vision.  My father proceeds to pluck the meatball from my plate, “ Your sisters and Mom are already over there, to say goodbye.  Finish up, soon.” 

                I can feel his gaze smothering me.  The afternoon sun penetrates the window panes, casting columns of warm rays into the restaurant, coupled with the wretched and sterile overhead fluorescent lighting.  Innumerable flecks of dust particles and microscopic debris roll and tumble in the blades of light; a sort of larger than life lava lamp showcase.  I forget to swallow my previous bite.  I tell myself to do so before it falls out of my mouth the next time I speak. 

God, what a bitter taste.

“Myles.”  No trace of concern.  Laced with impatience

                I shift my weight, noticing the creaks in the Irish green upholstery echoing in the restaurant.  I spot the condiment stained man across the street; I wait patiently with a contemplative gaze as he fumbles with his keys, bookstore shopping bag and jacket draped over his arm.  I can feel the greasy flecks of salt on my grubby fingers, and my appetite is no where in sight. 

“Myles, they need to take him away, soon.  Finish up, now.”  Not a request.  Never is.

               

My palm absentmindedly nudges the tray away as I scoot out into the dining area.  My father creeps out of his corner, deftly sweeping the tray up and tumbling the trash into the bin, finally taking his place behind me as he ushers me out into the cold mist of the afternoon. 

Still can’t pick a mask to wear.

 I interchange my emotions as we drive off towards our next stop,

               

Haraboji.

It really does roll off the tongue better than “grandpa”.

                I remember him being aromatic, my grandfather.  A combination of Asian fish stew and mothballs always bombarded my sense every time that door swung open invitingly.  A faint sheen of peppermint mouthwash topping off the scents.  I always looked forward to that embrace; it was unwarranted and intoxicating.  It didn’t even matter that he didn’t speak a shred of English, despite his migration from Seoul a score of decades ago.  No, I could translate anything he said with a grin like that.  So warm.  So excruciatingly warm.

                My family made mandatory dinner visits to my grandparents little suburban hut on the other side of town.  I especially looked forward to these excursions simply due to the fact that my father could vent on someone else for a change; the food didn’t hurt, either.  In typical Korean fashion, my grandmother would lay out countless side dishes composed of spiced and pickled vegetables, each one more pungent than the next.  And then the superstar of the hour arrived at the table: a spicy, fermented fish stew that created perspiration on the overhanging lamp shade as the steam engulfed the table. 

                This was my grandfather’s specialty, and I made sure to take an extra bowl to show my appreciation for his masterpiece.  Delightful to discover my admiration for his cooking, he took it upon himself to introduce me to his own personal vegetable garden behind his house, bordered by the choking construction of other affordable accommodations for elderly retirees.  A considerable chunk of his time he devoted to aiding me in keeping his garden at peak condition, and I was wholeheartedly hooked. 

That dirt caking the underside of my fingernails,

The bitter aftershave of vegetable greens and herbs,

The aroma of spiced cabbage wafting from the open window in the kitchen,

Reminding me of the tasty resolution to our endeavors on our dirt stained knees. 

And, of course, that beaming grin of his.  Unquenchable in its plea to reassure me very time I saw it.  I was addicted to it.  Now that I think about it, I can’t recollect if he ever didn’t beam like an idiot.  He loved me unabashedly, and I worshipped him unconditionally.

My eyes lazily slit as I feel the car downshift.  Blood rushes back to my numb right arm as I cease crushing it between my head and the car window.  Rolling my gaze, I spot the turn into the residential area where a flashing white hearse embroidered in blue and red lighted bulbs marks the lawn of my grandparents house.  A couple ninety degree turns later, and the car mutters to a halt behind my mother’s magenta minivan and a par of scooters parked alongside the mailbox of the house. My father motions to unclip himself.

“ Ok, let’s go.”  Too cold, I gestate. 

Why so sterile? 

Calculated? 

Too cold for Haraboji.

                In a fitting state of reluctance I scrape myself off of the beige leather and push the car door shut, shuffling across the uncut grass and ascending the granite steps to the open doorway.  I spot his feet lying atop the oriental rug of the living room before I even step past the threshold.  Better late than never as a jolt pulses from behind my eyes to my jaw line.  My brow scrunches in a self defensive posture.

No more.  Just no.

                Too late.  I find myself being suffocated between my mother’s rotund figure and the claustrophobic tears of my sisters as I stand erect over his wrinkled visage, laying there prone on that god awful rug.  You’ll find my father in the corner with the bookcase, shooting the breeze with the paramedic.  Someone urges me to give Haraboji a kiss. 

“It’s ok; go ahead,” I’m assured tearfully. 

Of course it’s OK, you condescending fucks.

Stop it.

                I chew my tongue to shake my blossoming frustration.  It seems wrong, regardless of their reassurance.  I shoot a look at my father.  He has beaten me to the punch, already drilling a hole into the back of my eye sockets. 

Please smile.

                I curse my self in my plea.  I know what to expect from him.  And, yet, I can’t seem to prepare myself for what I see next as I peel off and rest my blurring focus on my grandfather’s battered mug.  No, not in all those slivers of sprightly tranquility with my grandfather in his garden, or hovered over the black stone pot with our hands plopping in vegetables into a steaming pot of mouth watering goodness. 

That smile.

I can’t find it.

                Where is it?

Help me find it.

                Of God, please help me find it.

Nothing.  A blank slate with no discernible love laced in its creases.   

                …My face burns poker hot.

 I can only smell the mothballs, today.

Undying Movie Classics: Die Hard

      I can't even begin to comprehend how spoiled I am when it comes to the plethora of quality cinema I have been exposed to.  Ever since I can recall, I have bathed in the warm glow of a screen, my senses delicously assaulted in various genres, themes and film speeds.  My tastes have only improved in the last decade, making me much more susceptible to the undying classics that were the last generation's blockbusters.  Now, being a broke cinephile with too much time on his hands, I have discovered something that was lost in the chasm of my mind when I didn't appreciate what I grew up on; the genesis of the all too human heroic protagonist in a wife beater, from the powerhouse that is Die Hard.
    
      This movie brings back a painful memory of not fully appreciating this pulpy masterpiece.  Quite simply, it is the Holy Grail of the steaming dung heeps that have, for the past three decades, been trying to recreate the magic that the slightly balding Bruce Willis brought to the silver screen.  I mean, how is it possible for the entirety of Hollywood's talent to have missed the most basic yet foolproof blueprint for an action movie with heart?  To be fair, there have been movies that have, for the most part, done the bare minimum to create an action movie.  Unique, multifaceted setting? Check.  Flamboyantly vulgar and foreign villain?  Sometimes even too much.  A pyrotechnics spectacle to even rival Disney World?  As evident by my scarred retinas, also check.  Yet, despite all that 50 million that was put to good use, no one has even bothered to really look at the formula.  At this point, plagiarism would be a welcome reprieve in exchange for some thin veil of quality.
     
     In rather stark contrast, Die Hard gives a sense of completion when viewing the film..  Right off the bat, we are introduced to the main protagonist; a worn down man that has an understandably big fear of flying.  With jaw clenched, he is given a tip from a friendly passenger that will help his nervousness.  This perfectly set up my feelings when watching this as to how this guy could possibly even cope with whatever impending doom he was about to stumble upon.  Ultimately, I felt just a tad distrustful of his abilities, and that made it already different from the usual fare I had grown accustomed to.  Admittedly, that is a silly thought to even consider, seeing as how it IS Bruce Willis, flaunting that smug smirk he uses in all of his usual dribble.  

     As the film continues, the familiar pieces of the puzzle start to form an invitingly commonplace affair.  I became strangely giddy when the stereotypical black sidekick comes into play, not to mention the over the top foreign baddes that plague the gigantic set peice that is Nakatomi Tower.  Speaking of which, let's take a look at one of the main characters.  Each and every nook and cranny of this bulding is seemingly utilized to its full extent.  When a scene calls for verticality, our hero is plunged down elevator shafts and an assortment of stair ways.  Yet if tension/suspense needs to be highlighted, the film shrinks the hallways and tightens up the air ducts to make us and our shit out of luck protagonist every bit disoriented.  This is thanks to the great dynamcic of the cinematography and the characters that sell every facial expression.  There's something disturbingly evocative about witnessing a sterile, controlled environement like this building be reduced down to a nightmarish hell scape,  blood spatters and bullet holes riddling the walls.  

     Quite possibly one of the main attractions is the head of this gang of german baddies, Hans Gruber.  Brilliantly played by one Alan Rickman, this is an antagonist that a multitude of other films have yearned to copy.  It's not that he is grandiose in stautre or idelas. In fact, it really boils down to him being a highly trained petty thief.  But damn it if he isn't the classiest bastard to charm me while he shoots innocent bystanders in the face.  Seriously, it's as if they wrote the movie with Alan Rickman alongside them, advising as to how much of a dick his character should be.  Suffice to say, no one has matched the calibre of his performance in any other movie of this genre for a damn long time.  
     
     Of course, the top billed talent that headlines this act is the show stealer, Burce Willis. He is the personification of the every man, albeit with slightly superior survival skills than myself.  As mentioned before, this hero has flaws; he hates flying, his marriage is going down the drain, and he has a mean bald spot, thankfully with no comb over in sight.  So, when the shit hits the fan, it comes as a pleasant surprise to see the animilistic ferocity of his character when his life is on the line.  Without spoilers, I can tell you the baddies start falling like dominos.  But it's not a rampage he goes on.  He is actually calculated in his actions, for the most part.  Rarely is he not one step ahead of Gruber and his goons.

     What gets me with this portrayal of his character is that his actions mirror my perceived intentions in the scenarios he comes across.  Every time he is seriously injured he reacts accordingly to the trauma, eventually transitioning to a visually evident look of strained determination to push through all the pain.  Already at this point this character has seperated himself from the superheroes of the genre who, under similar circumstances, just shrug off everything as minor flesh wounds.  In one particularly important scene, we see the sheer will power of our protagonist as he is forced to run barefoot across a floor covered in broken shards of glass.  Up until that point, people had never really seen a hero figure like John McClane become so vulnerable,  limping around like a wounded animal, staving off death to the last possible second.  it's in the power of this scene where we see the director's intention to involve the audience in the best way possible; the bond between the viewer's sentimentality and the character's central being.  

     Calling this film anything other than a classic is a disservice to the massive talent behind and in front of the camera.  It has solidified itself in the often diluted pantheon of 80's action cinema as the vulgar and deliciously brutal grandfather of that era, and I am all the more thankful for the exposure.  
      

     The following review is something I had previously written a few weeks ago, festering in a little red notebook I keep in my bag.  Every time I look back at my musings I cringe at some of my word choices and curse myself for not reigning in my peculiar vocabulary.  And then, with a sudden flurry of self prescribed loathing, I overlap my chicken scratchings with angry red marker stains and replace them with slightly less gaudy word choices until I reach my idea of a satisfactory compromise.  However, being the banner boy for indecisiveness, I cave in and eventually insert some indulgent quips, regardless of whether or not they add anything meaningful to my ramblings.  Nevertheless, with a sort of nail biting anxiousness, I invite you to comb over my findings and to toss any and all helpful criticism my way, so that I may eventually mull over your opinions and disregard them entirely, shortly after.  Enjoy.

      There is at least one movie in everyone's life that becomes ingrained in their minds, festering and gnawing at their previously inept knowledge of cinema.  For some, it can be boiled down to the effortless charm Mr. "Better With Age" George Clooney brings to his roles, wooing the female patrons of theaters worldwide.  Or, if your tastes embrace the rebellious at heart, the advent of the raunchy sex comedies of the early days might stir your interest, most notably the grandfather of this genre, "Animal House".  I, being a man who is expected to embrace anything with mind numbing explosions and gratuitous amounts of mammary flaunting, tend to indulge in films that embrace the slow burn of its protagonists and the moral quandaries they succumb to when I am in need of mental stimuli.  Ultimately, the one movie that I flock to in my time of solace is a little gem called "The Sting", a film that is spearheaded by a dynamic duo, consisting of Paul Newman and Robert Redford.  Re-enforced by George Roy Hill's spitfire direction and attention to period authenticity, this timeless piece of cinematic pie is the culprit in my spoiled tastes when regarding the flaccid industry that is now film.  I'm looking at you, Hollywood.
      I was an idiot when I was a kid.  Technically, that's a broad statement for anyone at that age, but it was especially true for me, considering that I overlooked this movie as another one of my mother's relentlessly boring VHS tapes, taking up my precious time to watch Space Jam for the millionth time.  Now, being a full grown arrogant and brash young adult, I have concluded that I want to be buried with this film.  I won't bother to summarize this movie, since that defeats the purpose of experiencing the effortless cadence in which this movie gallops along.  However, a little back round on the characters goes a long way in sparking any interest.  Essentially, Robert Redford plays a character named "hooker", an intelligent yet naive con man who is on a quest for revenge, using the only skill he has.  Being brash and fool hardy, he is forced to team up with the legend that is Paul Newman, also known as "Henry Gondorff", a fellow grifter that has taken on some of the biggest jobs in town, only to be reduced to a sliver of his former self after a grift gone bad.
     Even on paper, this coupling sounds like a match made in 35mm heaven, and it only gets better once these two bounce off each other.  It boggles my mind that their chemistry hasn't been harnessed in anything else, other than "Butch Cassidy", since their repertoire is what drives this flick.  In their first meeting Henry is a disheveled drunkard, much to the bemusement of Hooker.  One ice bath later, however, Henry is a clean shaven, steely blue eyed shadow of his former self.  Hooker sees this, and concedes to his expertise and knowledge, almost pleading to Henry to get back at his aggressor, a deliciously cold banker played by Robert Shaw.  Henry sees this vulnerability and caves in to his human side.  However, on closer inspection, I feel as though he is accomplishing a goal for himself that he missed when he was in his prime; a sense of purpose in his work.  Sure, he did it for the money, a perfectly serviceable reason, yet it didn't drive him like the fuel that drives Hooker.  Seeing this, Henry actually glimpses himself in Hooker, a man that is where Henry wants to be, age wise and philosophically.  I feel as though he is compelled to transpose himself onto Hooker, able to live out a strand of life he missed out on.  A second chance, in a sense.  Thinking along this line of reasoning, I find their chemistry almost self serving, since they are essentially talking to themselves, albeit Henry being more in tune to this odd prophecy than Hooker, a person who doesn't question the odd bond he has with this strangely similar man.
     Hooker, on the other hand, is unsure on a consistent basis throughout the movie, taken aback by the curve balls that come flying his way.  And yet, when it comes down to the wire, Hooker drags himself along, acting as the driving force for the audience.  He is a traditional piece of the puzzle, yet an essential one.  And, to top it off, it is shown regularly that his cunning attitude is what saves the con on multiple occasions.  Fortunately, the character is at an agreeable level of complexity for the admittedly limited range of Robert Redford.  Not to say that he is a dull actor, Far from it, in fact.  It's just that he is more favorable for his own time, when the complexities of today's Hollywood didn't put so much pressure on actor's to change themselves for our entertainment.  Method acting is a dream, for now.  Yet, it is exactly why I adore this movie.  The talent that litters this movie is completely at ease with embracing their individual egos.  They know they are stars.  They feel the eyes of the audience on them, hungry for more of their dominating presence on screen.  And they relish every second of it.
     The crew behind the film realized this when composing around this movie, so they made the logical choice of adding as little music as possible, save for a pretty little piano ditty that is strategically pinned at various points of the film, as well as other pieces with similar staying power.  By doing this, we get to soak in the tense air that envelops these characters, scene after scene.  One example is the hallmark of this film; a poker game on a speeding train.  Set up as a way to gauge the protagonist's mark and as a launching point for their big con, Paul Newman harness his own star power to crank up the collective heat.  Now, normally card games don't elicit much of a positive response from me, since they usually end up with me being a major sour puss and vowing to hit someone after losing the tenth hand.  But surround that table with expertly crafted sprinkles of humour and suggestive slivers of dread for the lead, and you have yourself one hell of a suspenseful game.  Sounds great, right?  Now imagine literally no trace of music, save the cacophony of train tracks and the rustling of cards, topped off with the obligatory train whistle at the more intsense facial closeups.  The sounds are so intoxicating that upon repeated viewings, the back round noise becomes the music itself, complimenting the aforementioned cadence of the actor's timing in dialogue.
     One last note to make before completely spoiling this gem is that the production value of this movie brings to mind the phrase, "Spared no expense".  I mean, the detailed clothing and set designs that litter this flick is just mind boggling, considering how detail to that extent usually reaches prices upwards of multiple billions of dollars in today's time.  The difference between then and now, however, is that the inorganic sets and clothing become the characters, while movies today put an unnecessary sheen on everything, as if to say that time period was an ideal period in our history.  This grievous error in replicating history is absent in this movie, where in the opening shot people and businesses are realistically shown in shambles while a privileged individual's polished shoes stroll defiantly down the dirty sidewalks, leaving a stingy residue in one's mouth.  What a way to set a fire underneath viewers and to get them involved in the film. 

     I'm terrible with wrapping up my point, so I'll just advise you to watch this movie and prepare to be spoiled.